The first betrayal wasn’t the money; it was the way my own handwriting glared up from that folder like a confession I’d never meant to sign. Thirty years of “just helping out” lay there in silent columns, every transfer a tiny erasure of myself, and suddenly even the rain outside felt like it was falling on someone else’s house. Serena’s lipstick didn’t smudge when she said my name; Wesley’s did, in the way his mouth trembled around the word “Mom,” as if he’d only just realized it had ever meant anyth… Continues…
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